


Northern Lights

by JuliaJekyll



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Established Relationship, Kissing, Love, M/M, Sweet Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3968092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a couple of experiments in other fandoms, I'm back to writing Sherlock fic! This idea had been rattling around in my head for a couple of days, but I couldn't figure out the right characters to use it on...so I decided to try it on Johnlock. Also, to be honest, I was feeling a bit unloved and needed to write a love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Northern Lights

“But Sherlock,” said John, exasperated, “you don't smoke anymore anyway.”

“Maybe not,” Sherlock snapped, “but at least on the ground, I know that I could if I really wanted to.”

“This is good for you, then,” John insisted. “You've got to kill the urges...all of them. Trust me; I've seen plenty of people relapse-”

“Stop lecturing me,” Sherlock interrupted, closing his eyes and dramatically holding a hand to his forehead. “I'm already airsick.”

John rolled his eyes. “You don't get airsick, you prat,” he grumbled.

“I do when annoying doctors spend entire flights barking at me.”

“Who's bloody barking?” He was tempted to add that Sherlock was barking mad, but it felt too easy; Sherlock wouldn't even grudgingly appreciate the humor.

Sherlock groaned.

“God, if I'd have known you were going to be this grumpy, I wouldn't have suggested that we take a vacation together in the first place,” John said, irritably shifting position in his seat on the plane.

Sherlock's lips curved. “Yes, you would have,” he replied.

John didn't reply, because Sherlock was right, and they both knew it. They'd been dating for nearly two months now, but if John had thought that being boyfriends as well as flatmates would put an end to their numerous arguments, he'd been laughably wrong. They still sniped at each other, still shouted occasionally, still insulted each other, still raced about London solving crimes and such. The only difference was that now they could lie in bed together afterwards, kissing, touching, and whispering tender words.

Which, of course, was all the difference in the world.

Still annoyed, but resigned, John reached over and laid his hand on top of Sherlock's. Sherlock turned his hand palm-up so that he could lace his fingers through his partner's. John leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, imitating Sherlock's pose.

This was their entire relationship. They argued, they agitated one another, and then one of them made a sweet gesture that reminded both of them that neither could be without the other. The arguments weren't a detriment to their relationship; rather, they were a part of it, inseparable from the whole. Sherlock's hand was cool but not cold, and John felt himself smile a bit as he focused on the light pressure of his boyfriend's long fingers. He was convinced that this vacation was just what they needed for their fledgling relationship to grow.

* * *

Their plane landed in Copenhagen only a few minutes behind schedule, but that was enough to send Sherlock into a frenzy. By the time they collected their bags and were on their way to the train station, he had railed against British Airways, the airport they'd arrived at, the Danish government, and the very air itself for setting them behind. John, who had replenished his stores of patience in the quiet time on the plane after Sherlock had uncharacteristically dozed off for a bit, just let him get it all out, occasionally sighing with exasperation (which of course did not go unnoticed by Sherlock) but not trying to deter him from his frustration.

On the train ride to the docks, Sherlock eventually shut up and sat back. Relieved, John watched the scenery go past as they rode to where they would catch their ship.  
They made it to the ship on time, boarded, and after a while, cast off. Wrapped securely in their warmest clothing, Sherlock and John sat together on the deck, watching the water and occasionally touching hands, waiting to arrive at their destination: the fabled Faroese Islands.

* * *

“John?”

“Hm?”

“You said this would be romantic.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock sat down on the bed in the cabin they'd rented. “How exactly does one quantify romance? I mean, what makes something qualify as romantic?”

John sighed, but not with annoyance; more with thought. He was used to Sherlock asking for analytical explanations of feelings, especially since they'd become a couple. “Well,” he said, weighing his words, “I suppose something is romantic when it makes you feel strongly toward another person.”

“But I already feel strongly for you.”

That statement alone nearly brought John to his knees. Sherlock was not a man who expressed his feelings easily, and the thought that he could bring such a blunt declaration from the other man was incredibly powerful. “Stronger,” John said, trying not to let his voice shake. “I mean...a sort of strength that would drive you mad if it was what you felt all the time. It's not a feeling that can be constant, because it would distract you. It's just...something you feel from time to time, when you have a really special moment with another person.”

Sherlock was nodding slowly, thoughtfully. John was mildly amazed that he'd managed to come up with an explanation that actually satisfied him.

“You mean,” Sherlock said, “like the first time you kissed me.”

John felt a little rush of feeling at the memory. “Yes,” he said, sitting down on the bed beside Sherlock. “Like that.” He held Sherlock's gaze for a moment, and then kissed him lightly on the lips.

Sherlock frowned slightly. “Nice,” he said, “but I don't think romantic.”

“Just wait.” John kissed Sherlock's forehead. “Wait until tonight.”

* * *

They weren't the only ones venturing out that night. Everyone in the area was there for the same reason: to see the Northern Lights (or “Aurora Borealis”, as Sherlock kept reminding John). There were local guides showing people the best spots to see the display, but Sherlock had no patience for that, of course, and so he and John walked together apart from everyone else. They were holding hands, but John couldn't really feel it because they were both wearing gloves. In fact, they were both completely covered in clothing, being that it was well below freezing outside.

All John could see of Sherlock were his beautiful ice-blue eyes, which looked even more like ice than usual in this context. He wore his usual Belstaff coat, but he also had a hooded sweatshirt underneath and had pulled the hood up over his head. His famous scarf was wound around the lower half of his handsome face. John, lacking a hood, had wrapped himself in a blanket that went under his coat and over his head, then pinned it so that it covered his mouth and nose. He could see, and that was all.

He stood, hand-in-hand with Sherlock, huddling together to provide greater warmth. It was always nice to be as close to Sherlock as possible, and John would have been lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to the night. Of course he wanted to see the lights, but he also wanted to lay Sherlock down in front of a fire, strip away the layers, kiss him until he bruised...

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, raising a gloved hand to point into the distance. John's thoughts came back to the present as he looked up and saw the beginning of one of the loveliest displays nature had to offer. The sky was flashing green edged with purple and blue and tinges of red. Mesmerized, never having seen anything like it before, John watched.

All around him, he heard people exclaiming, cameras going off. He glanced at Sherlock and saw the lights reflected in his eyes. John smiled in satisfaction as he saw the wonder there. It took a lot to amaze Sherlock Holmes, but the Northern Lights appeared to be doing the job well enough.

John turned back toward the sky to watch for himself. The sky shimmered with color and beauty, dazzling him with its loveliness. Everything else, including the cold, seemed to fall away as he watched...

* * *

 

Sherlock couldn't decide where to look, because both views were equally paralyzing in their beauty. There were the lights-a natural wonder Sherlock had never before seen in person, the mechanics of which he, of course, knew, but which suddenly didn't seem to matter much. And then, there was his boyfriend, his green eyes alight as he marveled at the sky, beautiful as Sherlock had never imagined a human being could be.

His heart was pounding under all his layers of clothing. Suddenly he wanted to devour John whole-an idea that made no logical sense whatsoever, but that had come to his mind nonetheless. It was overwhelming, madness...

Romance?

Sherlock looked over at John again...and then he moved. With a rush of need, he tore his scarf away from his face, then shifted so that he was in John's line of sight. He saw surprise in John's eyes, but he didn't dwell on it. Instead, he unpinned the blanket John had wrapped around himself, exposing his nose and lips, and then swiftly took possession of those same lips with his own. He gripped the back of John's head with his hands, pulling the other man closer, snogging the hell out of him. He could feel John's cold skin against his, his lips moving eagerly. Sherlock deepened the kiss still more, taking a more active role in their kissing than he usually did, biting and probably bruising. John's arms were around his waist, squeezing so hard that Sherlock could feel them through the layers of fabric. They kissed until they couldn't breathe; until the wind began to bite into their faces, and only then did they pull away. They smiled stupidly at each other for a moment, utter fools in love, the fact that one of them was a brilliant detective and the other was a brilliant doctor not mattering in the slightest. They were idiots for each other.  
They watched the lights wrapped in each other's arms.

* * *

Back in their blessedly warm cabin, Sherlock and John stripped to clothing that it was appropriate to spend the night in and crawled into bed, holding each other tightly, each wanting nothing more than to feel that the other was close by.

Sherlock felt John press a kiss into his hair and sighed contentedly, settling against his boyfriend's chest.

“You are remarkable, Sherlock Holmes,” John said, his voice slightly muffled against Sherlock's curls.

“As I've told you on multiple occasions.”

“Prat.” John tangled his fingers with Sherlock's. “That was quite a kiss.”

“It was romantic,” Sherlock announced, then paused, as if unsure. “Wasn't it?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John replied. “It was wonderfully romantic. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. I assure you, it was every bit as wonderful for me.” He played with John's fingers for a moment, then said “I felt it. The strong feeling; the madness. Just like you said; just like when you first kissed me.”

“Good,” John said softly and a bit sleepily, giving Sherlock another kiss on the forehead. “So did I.”


End file.
